


Nous l'avons trouvé

by BonGarland



Category: Avengers, Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Darcy takes matters into her own hands, Detective Darcy, Gen, In over her head but gets it done, Or not, Post Ant Man credits scene, Trapped Bucky needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonGarland/pseuds/BonGarland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, post the Ant-Man end-credits scene. Darcy Lewis is serving as Steve Rogers' secretary at Avengers headquarters, and takes a call one afternoon that Cap might wanna take...But with him MIA, Darcy's got to take matters into her own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nous l'avons trouvé

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, I really have no explanation for this thing other than the fact I was rereading some of my earlier work, to get back into Darcy Lewis, and there was Civil War all over my Tumblr dash, and...So...
> 
> Couple disclaimers here - read with a grain of salt. My French is a bit rusty, so apologies for errors in the syntax but I couldn't resist. I'm also not a mechanic, nor do I know what's really in a garage...I'm not a NY native, so I have nooo clue what Brooklyn's like schematically. I also haven't read many of the comics, or any of Civil War, so references to the accords, and where Cap originally lived, etc., are purely contrived for the fic, or hastily researched. There you have it. Enjoy!

Darcy Lewis was bored. Steve Rogers was as obsessive over organization as anyone she'd ever met, and he came in after-hours to tidy every night, so there wasn't even a piece of paper out of order to clean up.

Why did he even need a secretary? He was the most orderly person ever, exceeding even her memories of professor Gifford back in college; the English professor stalked the aisles of the library, making sure books were correctly catalogued – on his lunch breaks. Come to think of it, she'd been surrounded by Type A's all her life.

Chewing absently on the end of a 40's-era replica fountain pen, the price of which she'd surely have taken out of her pay if Captain Rogers spotted her doing so, she rolled across the spacious office to refresh his email again.

Steve and Sam, codename Falcon and maybe-man-of-Darcy's-dreams (so she had a crush on an Avenger, who didn't?), had been gone for weeks, on an extended reconnaissance mission in Europe. She was stuck back at Avengers campus in upstate New York, twiddling her thumbs. A grumble escaped her lips as the little swirling blue cursor soon stopped, reflecting no new emails in either of their accounts.

She hadn't tased an Asgardian deity, smashed Dark Elves with cars, and, finally, written her degree thesis covering U.S.-Russia diplomatic relations, only to become a paper-pusher for Captain America, because his circle of trust was shrinking faster than the sweater she'd accidentally put in the dryer last week. And yet, that's what it had all come down to, a phone call that had Jane's face scrunching into the sort of annoyance that normally had Darcy fleeing on a mocha run, and a string of angry words from the petite scientist that ended with "so you're gonna be his secretary, I guess."

Darcy could live with a temporary assignation like that; he was hot, the company he kept was hot, and she would be, like, aiding the pursuit of justice and everything. She wouldn't have to deal with space, either, another definite plus. So she'd accepted, even though apparently it wasn't even up to her, and packed up her few belongings from the flat in London, and headed to New York.

She'd seen Captain America a total of four times, all in passing, and Sam Wilson only once. At least he'd smiled and winked at her, although Cap was always very respectful.

But it seemed that the things that had mattered to her while running Jane's ghetto-status labs did not matter here. The coffee was terrible, they had powdered creamer (a travesty), and there was nothing to do. The logistics of superhero work was definitely not all that it had been cracked up to be.

At least she had privacy – the whole floor was hers, and as far as she knew, not many people were even in the facility at the moment. The entire Stark colony was moved offsite a few weeks ago when tension reached a new level on the premises, and talk of those Accords started leading to fistfights every hour on the hour. Jane was gallivanting around Europe after huffily surrendering her Darcy help, because SCIENCE FAME, Thor was nowhere to be found, and the rest of the Avengers were out joining sides in the registration debate.

Heaving a sigh and opening the Solitaire app for the sixth time that day, Darcy settled in for another round, sipping tentatively at the gnarly coffee she'd prepared herself.

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When the phone rang, it took a moment for her to realize that was what was happening – the phone never rang, Steve seemed to have an unhealthy attachment to paper mail, and that was typically how information arrived, if not by email. The old-fashioned device rattling in the corner finally roused Darcy from her game, and she frowned, pausing the timer on the screen and launching her wheeled chair in that direction.

"Hello, Captain Steve Rogers' office, Doctor Lewis speaking," she started, secretly smug with herself every time she was able to answer like that. She technically didn't have her doctorate in political science and international relations yet, but hell, she was the assistant to Captain America and could say whatever she pleased.

"C'est le bureau du Capitaine, oui?" A strange voice immediately asked, and Darcy froze, her brain racing to recognize and then translate. Thank God the random voice was speaking French, her second major.

"Uh, oui, c'est ça,"she replied hesitantly, frowning deeply as she grabbed a sheet of paper and uncapped the pen she'd been gnawing on.

"Le soldat d'hiver, il est ici," the voice continued. "Nous lui avons." It sounded strange, apart from the French; automatic and robotic-ey. Must have been using a voice disguiser. At least it made the accent easy to comprehend.

Except that the words didn't make much sense – the soldier…of Winter? Oh, shit.

She had been briefed, very confidentially, by Maria Hill, once, on what had happened in D.C. before Darcy had been hired. This guy was serious business, and Cap was looking for him with everything he had.

"Où?" Darcy managed, hoping her translation skills were up for some undoubtedly cryptic, esponiagey response.

"Où ils ont commencé,"the voice supplied, suitably cryptic, she supposed. Where they had started ? What?

"Et…qu'est-ce que vous voulez?"She stuttered, to keep the voice on the line. The building's AI had been running a trace on the call for a minute, but it needed more time.

"Rien. C'est ton problème maintenant." The voice clicked off without any further explanation, leaving the stunned translator slack-jawed, her lowered pen dragging black ink across her page of notes. Where they had started? Who?

She snatched up her phone, relieved it wasn't dead from her Words with Friends marathon of the day, and quickly dialed Steve. The phone rang and rang, ending in the annoying automatic voicemail reception message. "Steve, it's, uh, Darcy, your secretary?" She cleared her throat. "I just got a really weird call here at the office, someone in French, and uh – they said they'd found…him. You know. So, um. Call me back pronto, thanks." She hung up, feeling bad that the voicemail would likely cause more panic than it should've. She was nervous as hell, though; one didn't simply leave Captain America a voicemail saying his long-lost Russian-brainwashed best friend was around, and in someone else's hands, by the sounds of it.

Was the caller laying a trap? Was it even true? Shit, should she have vetted something first before calling? She hadn't had much formal training for this sort of thing…She scrambled to find Sam's contact information on her phone, hurriedly dialing him, too. Same thing – voicemail, and she didn't bother with another round of incoherent verbal diarrhea, just clicked to end the call and put her head in her hands.

Her spidey senses were tingling – no offense to that guy, of course, but she could feel something off about the whole thing. Anonymous phone calls were just never an innocent thing, there was always a serial killer or the police or one's nemesis on the other end. How had they known she spoke French? Did they know her, too? Was there a time limit on this offer, or whatever it was? Act now or free gift is retracted? There was also the fact that even if the Winter Soldier were to be handed over to the "good guys" custody, who's to say he wouldn't comply with his assassination-happy programming, or whatever it was? Aaaaarrghhh.

After ten minutes, she roused herself, starting to drift aimlessly around the room, mulling over the nasally-pronounced French words. It wouldn't hurt to try and figure out where they were talking about, in any case. "Where they started? Began?"

Nasty coffee forgotten, she trailed the fountain pen in her hands along a bookshelf, moving it to a desk when that surface ended. An old clock on the wall bonged out the hour, and Darcy's eyes shot to it, noting that it was only just before noon in the afternoon. Her eyes slid from it, landing on a map on the wall. A map of Brooklyn, because nothing was placed in this room unless Steve Rogers' nostalgia had approved it. Cheesy little laminate stars were dotted across the thing, marking this diner or that house; Steve was a weird dude. But, wait. Brooklyn. No way. The brilliant ideas never just came to the good guys like this in the movies.

She squinted, moving closer. How old, and therefore accurate, was this map anyways? Almost snorting when she spotted the 2014 trademark in the corner, Darcy eyed the various stars. A red star poetically marked James Buchanan Barnes' old family home, or what it used to be, anyways. Looked like it was part of a mall or something, now. Absently pulling her phone from the pocket of her cardigan she'd shoved it in after finishing her calls, she took a few shots of the map for reference.

Pacing in front of the wall for a few moments, she crossed in front of the map again and again, shooting it the odd glance. She was technically cleared for level three missions…Reconnaissance missions were typically that level… Making a snap decision, she moved to the computer, booking a cab, and then a train.

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The train ride south was uneventful; at this time of day, most people were leaving the main city areas and heading into the countryside, going the opposite direction as Darcy. This was likely a crazy, fool's errand, shot in the dark or whatever, but she needed something of consequence to do, with the world going crazy while she sat in an office and played solitaire all day.

Earbuds in, keeping an eye on the little ticker that indicated approaching stops, Darcy pulled out a paper map of New York she'd bought at the station, less familiar than she'd like to be with the city in general, but focusing intently on the small section on the back that was zoomed into Brooklyn. Her eye was twitching two minutes later.

"This is ridiculous," she huffed to herself. "I don't even have my taser."

Still, her need to do something about the call kept her going. Her phone was plugged into a portable charger, the ringer turned up in case Captain America decided to return her call and take over the mission that probably should have been his to begin with. But no calls came, unsurprisingly; she doubted anyone even knew she'd left the premises. Trees, fields and fences gave way to concrete, stories and stories of windows, and the smoggy horizon that signified a major city.

When she finally disembarked from the train, her phone was happily sporting a full charge, the map was marked up with a purple highlighter she'd found, and the creases were all wrong because who could ever fold a map up correctly again?

She started walking, realizing with dismay that it was past six in the evening, and rapidly getting darker. Murmuring scathing remarks to herself, she quickly called a cab, having it drop her in an industrial area on the east side. This was the dumbest thing she'd ever done, evident from the moment she stepped from the safety of the cab onto the darkened pavement of what looked like a strip of old factories. If she were a nefarious, globe-creeping gang, she'd have her captives holed up in a desolate warehouse.

Clearing her throat and tightening the scarf around her neck, Darcy checked to make sure no one was paying attention to her – the only being in sight was a homeless man pushing an overstuffed grocery cart along the opposite side of the street – and flicked on a flashlight, stepping into the first warehouse she found. Her phone was put on vibrate so it didn't give her presence away too easily, but she supposed the flashlight might do that. Oh well.

The first building yielded one startled cat, a thousand burned-calories worth of stairs, and a coughing fit from dust. Disappointing. Darcy sent a text message to Steve's phone, nearing desperation, letting him know her coordinates and what she was up to. If this self-appointed mission went south like it probably would, she'd want her body claimed and sent home, at least.

Shaking her head to clear it of morbid thoughts, Darcy crept next door to the neighboring warehouse. This one sported old font painted on the side, announcing some bankrupt beer company.

A moment later, she skittered out, thoroughly convinced there was merely one very illegal poker game going on in the back room, and just having escaped the players' notice. Good thing they were partaking of something in bottles that looked suspiciously like the old branding on the outside of the building. Gross.

The neighborhood had remained deserted all evening, likely yet another sign that Darcy herself ought not to be there. But she plowed on, checking three larger warehouses before leaning against the last one, huffing a sigh. She happened to glance up the road in time to see a few flashlight beams get cut off inside a smaller building just north of her.

The watery light of a streetlamp a few dozen feet from the building in question revealed several men clothed in black leaving, the light making a few gun barrels glisten. She didn't have to wonder where the light had come from, spotting the heavily-equipped scopes on the weapons. Yikes.

They crowded into an alley off to the side, and the sound of slamming car doors broke the silence of the street. A moment later, two SUVs pulled out, speeding down the street in Darcy's direction. She pressed herself further against the warehouse she'd just left, holding her breath as if that would make a difference in her being spotted.

Three minutes of carefully-counted seconds later, she inched out from her hiding spot, making her way towards the smaller building that revealed itself to be a deserted car garage. At least, she hoped it was deserted; no more lights gave anyone away, and oh, did she hope there wasn't anyone lurking inside with night-vision goggles or anything of the sort.

An old employee entrance towards the back looked like a safe entryway, and Darcy sent another furtive text to Steve, updating him with what she thought was the address for this spot. Danger pay, her mind kept repeating. Lots and lots of danger pay for this. At last, she'd gathered the courage to reach for the aging doorknob, but paused.

Fumbling around in her loaded messenger bag, she surreptiously drew out a bottle of hand lotion, generously dabbing it around the spot where the doorknob met the mechanism that connected to the lock, ensuring the knob wouldn't get slippery. Then she slowly turned the knob, grateful when it was a) unlocked, and b) silent as it turned to gain her admittance.

The room she'd entered had to be the old lobby or breakroom – a derelict vending machine sat sadly against a far wall, and furniture was minimal, and old. A faint, blueish light leaked into the room she'd entered, courtesy of a couple of interior windows that showed her the old workroom beyond.

"Holy shit." Her flashlight almost left her shocked grip, but she caught it just in time, clicking it off as she did so. The next room's occupant didn't seem to have noticed her entrance, which shocked her – surely he had better reflexes. But no, he seemed pretty focused on…whatever was going on in that room. Inching closer to the surveying window, Darcy could see a few old worktables laden with tools. There were old cords and ramps still laying around that elevated the cars.

The thing that most attracted her attention was the contraption on the far side of the room – some sort of heavy lift machine that looked mounted to the cement floor. Lodged in its grip was the metal arm belonging to none other than the Winter Soldier himself. Darcy covered her mouth to muffle a noise of sympathy; the guy looked terrible. Lank hair, likely matted with sweat, hung into his eyes and face, obscuring most of his expression from her view. He was dressed in a worn red Henley, by the looks of it, and looked pretty thoroughly ensnared, if she was any judge. She'd heard that someone estimated the metal arm alone could lift and rend at least five times what a normal man could, and probably more. Someone had clearly thought this through, she thought, eyeing the metallic, and only immobilized part of Bucky Barnes.

He shouldn't know she's here, she thought. He might try harder to get out and hurt himself, or he might get out with renewed determination and rip her head off, or he could attract attention to her being here…Which would be bad, if anyone was still around and hadn't already been clued in to the fact there was an untrained intruder in the house.

Frowning at the captive, Darcy backed away, carefully avoiding the old chairs in the side room she was in, and whirled to step back outside. Once out, she leaned over, hands on her knees, taking deep breaths. Then her phone rang, at last, the vibrations startling the hell out of her.

"Darcy, what the hell is going on?!" Steve Rogers' concerned tones barked through the line at her.

"It's about time!" She hissed back, flipping a furtive glance back over her shoulder as if she could see through the wall and what Bucky was doing. Darcy filled Cap in as best she could, ignoring his random exclamations and Sam's responses in the background, ending with her assurances that what she'd done was ridiculously reckless and stupid and she'd never leave the base again ever, ever, ever.

Was she certain HYDRA wasn't around? Hell no, she wasn't, and emphasized the need for speed.

Forty minutes later, she nearly shrieked when two figures materialized out of the darkness, coming to her side. Sam headed straight in, while Steve cupped her elbow and gave her a thorough once-over to make sure she was alright. "It's fine, Steve, gosh!" Darcy muttered indignantly, trying to gently brush off his grip.

"Hey Cap!" Sam's voice sounded from within, the volume suggesting he was confident no one else was there, and Steve told her to stay put, slipping inside. If his steps were hesitant, she couldn't tell in the low light, and she quickly slid down to a crouch against the exterior wall, awaiting their plan.

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It wasn't until much later that Romanoff confessed she'd found a lead and put it right through to Steve's office, in an uncharacteristically risky plan. She brushed it off when confronted, saying she always had faith that other women could get the job done just as well as she. Darcy had taken the offhand compliment as it came, knowing full well she'd really just run into a crazy amount of luck that night, but still promptly requested danger pay, and a general, immediate raise.

She knew what the bottom line was, though, and that Cap would likely never stop buying her gratitude-flavored mochas.

We found him.


End file.
